“Is she recovering?”
“I’m assured she is on the mend.”
“Good—can you be here within the hour?”
“I’m leaving now.”
“Excellent—I will have a series of papers for you to go over, and a list of documents required. Thank goodness the law hasn’t changed—it was on the books you know, but the war got in the way. Anyway, we can make a start.”
“Thank you, Mr. Klein.”
“I told you long ago, Maisie—you may call me Bernard.”
“Indeed—but old habits die hard.”
The black motor car was still parked on Conway Street, though upon closer inspection, Maisie realized it wasn’t completely black, but had a dark bottle green contrasting paint along the sides. She turned from the front window and crossed the office to the back window overlooking the yard below. There was a tall but narrow gate forming a rear exit to the alley, though probably not used—terra-cotta pots had been placed in front, filled with flowering plants. She gathered her handbag and briefcase, locked the door as she departed the office, and made her way down the stairs. But instead of leaving by the front door, she turned left at the end of the staircase and stepped across to a plain door with no number or name alongside. With her knuckle she rapped on the paneled door. There was no answer. She closed her eyes, whispering, “Please come. Please come.” She rapped again. And again. It was as she turned to leave that she heard the door being unlocked and a chain drawn back.
The man before her was, she thought, a few years older than herself. Of taller than average height, he wore dark trousers, a clean white collarless shirt and an unbuttoned waistcoat. He leaned on a walking stick, and when she looked into his face, she saw a scar running from his left cheekbone, down to an uneven jaw. At one glance, it was as if she knew everything about him.
“What do you want?” asked the man.
Maisie did not look away when her eyes met his. “My name is Maisie Dobbs. I work in the office above, and I wonder—would you be so kind as to allow me to leave by your back gate? I suppose it leads into the alley. Am I right? I’ll set the plants aside, and will move them back again when I return, but I would be very much obliged if you could help me.”
The man looked at her for a period of time—perhaps only a second or two, though it seemed as if he would never respond to her request.
He inclined his head, stepped back and held out his hand for her to enter. “Of course. Please, come in. And I apologize for taking so long to answer your knock. I usually use the entrance at the front, so was taken aback to hear someone at this door. Follow me.”
The man led the way from the narrow landing and two short flights of stairs into a sitting room which she thought was probably also the bedroom. He proceeded through to a scullery, and out into the yard. She was still surprised by the neat order of the flat when she emerged into the small yard, and realized her view from above did not do justice to the abundance of color the man had created.
“Oh, my—this is just beautiful. So small, and so perfect, Mr.—forgive me, I don’t know your name.”
“I never told you.” He held out his hand. “Walter Miles.”
“Thank you, Mr. Miles.” Maisie took the outstretched hand and returned his smile.
“Come on—let’s get you on your way.” Miles stepped across the flagstones and with Maisie’s assistance began to move terra-cotta pots away from the gate. “The bolt is a bit rusty, but I’ve moved it before.” He pulled on the bolt and after some effort, it gave, shooting back and releasing the gate, which he drew back and held open.
“I can’t thank you enough,” said Maisie.
“It was my pleasure, Miss Dobbs. The motor car has been out there for hours now, so be on your way before he realizes you’ve left and starts tootling down Tottenham Court Road looking for you.”
Maisie was about to open her mouth, when the man shook his head. “Go now.”
And as she ran down the alley and out onto Tottenham Court Road toward Goodge Street Station, Maisie could not help but wonder about Walter Miles. She had never seen him before, never noticed him coming or going—in fact, she assumed an elderly lady lived in the downstairs flat. Yet there was something familiar about him. And she knew very well the cause of his disfigurement—wherever she went in this time of war, there was always a reminder of the last, even if it was only the sight of Billy wincing as he stood up from his desk. She reflected upon her conversation with Sylvia Preston, and the terrible job assigned to her. And she wondered how another generation of men and women in years to come would have to fight a different battle every single day—a battle against a time that would not fail to mark them, inside and out, and would come back to haunt them at moments when they least expected it. But now there was one victim of the war she would do her level best to ensure would have only joyful memories to look back upon in the years to come. After leaving the underground station at Holborn, she all but ran to the offices of Bernard Klein.
Chapter 8
Maisie arrived at Chelstone later than she had hoped on Friday—her train pulled into the sidings several times to allow other trains to pass, and the journey was longer than usual, with a change at Paddock Wood instead of Tonbridge. She asked a station guard why there was a diversion, and was informed it was due to “extra trains coming up from the coast.”
Maisie’s father and stepmother were sitting at the kitchen table when Maisie entered the house.
“Maisie, did you walk all the way from the station? You should have said—I would have met you, walked back with you.”
“Not to worry, Dad.” She kissed him on the cheek, moving to her stepmother’s side for the same greeting. “How’s Anna? Is she feeling better?”
“I was just going to take up some warm milk for her—it’s on the side there, cooling. She’s had such a sore throat,” said Brenda.
“I’ll take it up then.” Maisie slipped off her jacket and placed it over the back of a chair. She turned toward the draining board where the red china mug filled with hot milk had been left to cool. Maisie took a spoon from the drawer, skimmed the skin from the top of the milk, and placed the mug on a saucer. “Is her honey already in, Brenda?”
“Oh yes—never forget the little one’s honey!”
Maisie smiled as she left the kitchen and made her way upstairs. The door to Anna’s room was ajar, so before stepping in, Maisie peered around. The child was awake, lying on her side and looking deep into the eyes of Emma, the orphaned Alsatian Maisie had rescued following the untimely death of the dog’s owner. Emma’s chin was resting on the counterpane while Anna was running her fingers through the dog’s ruff. But Anna was yawning, her eyelids growing heavy.
“I think it’s time for a little girl called Anna to have her milk and go to sleep,” said Maisie.
Anna turned, and held out her arms to Maisie. “Auntie Maisie, Auntie Maisie—I’ve still got measles!”
Emma wagged her tail and came to Maisie, who patted her in greeting, and pointed to the rug at the side of the bed. The dog turned and lay down, nose between paws, watching her young mistress.
“Here you are.” Maisie held her palm under the cup while Anna lifted it to her lips and drank the milk in just a few gulps. “Someone was thirsty,” said Maisie as she took the cup with one hand, and placed the fingers of the other to the child’s forehead to feel her temperature. “How are you feeling now, my love?”
Anna shrugged. “I think I’m getting better, but Auntie Brenda says I have to stay in bed for a bit longer. Emma said so too—she likes to sleep here.”
“Emma said so?”
“Yes she told me this morning that we should stay in bed another two days, to catch up on our sleep and be strong for Lady, when I can ride again.”
“Well, I think Emma’s quite right—she’s a very intelligent dog.” Maisie stood up and placed the cup on a wicker side table. “Would you like me to read a story?”